The Sea Between (23 page)

‘In the event of your marrying?’ William’s brows gathered in a perplexed frown.

‘William, please, let me finish,’ she said, tightening her grip on his hand. ‘My aunt instructed me to buy a property with the money. She also left instructions that if I decided to marry, I was to sell the property and give the proceeds to a charitable organization.’

‘Do what!’

‘William, don’t look at me like that!’ Charlotte said a shade sharply. ‘It wasn’t I who wrote the instructions. It was my aunt.’

‘I presume this aunt is the same aunt that George has told me tales about,’ William said scathingly, pulling his hand free. ‘His Aunt Annabel.’

‘Isobel,’ she corrected.

‘Well, whatever her name, she was clearly exceptionally eccentric. I’m not a man to speak ill of the dead, but after some of the tales that George told me, I do wonder if she was slightly mad.’

Charlotte leaned back and looked at William reproachfully. ‘She was a highly intelligent woman, William.’

‘And heavily involved with women’s rights campaigners, according to George. I trust you aren’t of that inclination, Charlotte?’

She looked away and said nothing.

Suddenly twigging to what was at the bottom of Isobel’s instructions, William said loudly: ‘Ah, is that what this is about? The cause for women? It is, isn’t it! This was your aunt’s way of attempting to ensure that your property didn’t fall into your husband’s hands when you married.’ He made a loud scoffing noise. ‘Well, I’m afraid your aunt was extremely naïve if she imagined she could stipulate conditions of that nature. Once a property has been purchased, what
happens to it thereafter is entirely up to the owner. There’s not a court in the land that would uphold that kind of ridiculous proviso in a will.’

‘It wasn’t in her will. It was in a letter that she wrote to me,’ Charlotte corrected.

William made another loud scoffing noise. ‘Well, if it was only in a letter, she could have saved herself the ink. A letter isn’t a legally binding document. I thought you said she was intelligent.’

‘She was intelligent,’ Charlotte said, rising to her feet. ‘I held her in very high regard. What’s more, William, regardless of the legality of her request, it was her dying wish and I believe I should honour it.’

‘And what of honouring me?’ William gave her a sharp look. ‘What of honouring me and my wishes? It seems to me, Charlotte, that you feel more loyalty to a dead aunt than you do to the man who will shortly become your husband and the father of your children.’ He shook his head, making a point of letting her see exactly how displeased he was, then in terse tones said, ‘Charlotte, you will very soon be promising to love, honour and obey me. Well, I am asking you now, as my fiancée, to honour my wishes. And my wishes are that you go home, tear up your aunt’s letter, and allow me to decide what is best for our future.’

Charlotte was far too angry and upset to answer him. She merely snatched her coat from the back of the sofa and left.

She was more than a little grateful to find only Ann in the parlour when she got back. George had gone back to the office, to recheck some of his insurance figures. Not bothering to take her coat off, she slumped down on the couch and spilled out what had happened.

‘Oh dear,’ Ann said at the end of Charlotte’s account, frowning sympathetically. ‘Well, I can understand why William was upset, but I can also understand that you feel the need to honour Isobel’s request.’

‘Oh, Ann, what shall I do?’ Charlotte said miserably. ‘I’m not even sure that I want to marry William any more.’

‘I dare say William is wondering much the same thing,’ Ann said.

‘D’you think he is?’ Even as she voiced the question, Charlotte realized that there was a small part of her which was half-hoping that William was reconsidering. Most of the time, she felt confident that she could be happy with him, but there were times when she wondered if she was doing the right thing.

‘You look almost relieved,’ Ann remarked quietly, with her usual astuteness. ‘Are you truly having second thoughts about marrying William?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m so mixed up, Ann, I don’t know what I think or what I want any more. All I know is that William is forcing me to choose between his wishes and Isobel’s.’

‘Actually, I think it’s Isobel who is forcing you to choose,’ Ann returned. She waited for a moment, giving Charlotte time to digest the statement, before continuing, ‘And I have to say that I think her motive for including those instructions is questionable. Well, what was her motive? I don’t think she was trying to ensure that you didn’t marry a profiteer who wanted to marry you only for your property, do you?’

‘She said that was one reason,’ Charlotte returned. ‘In her letter.’

‘Well, saying it is one thing, meaning it is another,’ Ann said. ‘But whatever her motive, she certainly wasn’t considering the impossible situation that those instructions placed you in. Isobel would have known full well that they would cause trouble. But Isobel, as you know, thrived on that sort of thing.’ She paused, then added quietly, ‘I can understand why William was upset, Charlotte. You are, after all, going to be his wife very soon, and when you are he’ll expect you
not only to be undividedly loyal to him but also to cede to his wishes without question. Much the same as George expects me to. They’re very similar in many ways.’

They are very similar, Charlotte agreed silently. In fact, in that respect all men were very similar.

‘Oh, what am I to do, Ann?’ Out of sheer frustration, Charlotte hurled her leather gloves across the room. They hit the wall with a soft thud, then landed noiselessly on the carpet.

Ann, as easily as paring an apple, cut to the core of the problem. ‘Your aunt’s wishes aren’t really the issue, are they? The issue is William, is it not? Whether he’s the right man for you. Is he?’

Charlotte frowned and screwed her mouth up. ‘Do you think he is?’

Ann smiled gently. ‘What I think doesn’t matter. What matters is: do you think he is?’

‘I don’t know, Ann. I’m not sure,’ she admitted truthfully.

Ann watched patiently as Charlotte fidgeted with a loose thread on the arm of the sofa, giving her space to think. Eventually she asked, ‘Were there any other instructions in Isobel’s letter?’

Charlotte looked up and nodded, then almost in the same instant shook her head. ‘No. Not instructions. More in the nature of pieces of advice really. She told me to forget Richard and not to settle for second best.’

Ann sat for a moment or two in silence, then said quietly, ‘Well, I don’t think you’ll ever forget what Richard once meant to you. As for not settling for second best, life is full of second bests and compromises, Charlotte. There are things that I wish could be different, that are second best to what I’d choose, but the truth is you just have to get on with life and make the best of the things you can’t change.’

Charlotte looked at her, unsure what she meant. ‘Are you saying
that I should make the best of things and marry William?’

Ann shook her head. ‘Not at all. Only you know if William is the right man for you. But if he isn’t the right man, you’d better tell him that you’ve changed your mind, because once you’re married to him it will be too late to change your mind.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Charlotte murmured. She closed her eyes. Her head was spinning, and unless she was much mistaken those were George’s footsteps coming up the street.

Feeling quite unable to cope with George’s problems as well as her own, she stood up, kissed Ann affectionately on the cheek, and told her she was going to bed.

Charlotte didn’t sleep. Not a wink.

She spent the whole night thinking and rethinking things through, but by morning she had reached a few decisions. She had decided firstly that Ann was right: Isobel’s requests had been quite unreasonable, and it had been unfair of her to try to impose them on Charlotte, knowing, as she must have known, the bother they’d cause. But that was Isobel to a tee. Much as Charlotte had loved her, Isobel was an incorrigible bother causer.

Secondly, she had decided that, straight after breakfast, she would collect the accounts ledgers from the shop and drop them into William’s office, by way of an olive branch, along with an apology for upsetting him. As for marrying him, well, she hadn’t really been seriously considering not marrying him; she had simply been upset.

And thirdly, she had made up her mind to be nicer to Eliza, to make an effort to be friendlier to her. Richard had wished her happiness with William and shamed her by it. She’d never wished him happiness with Eliza; in fact, she’d stooped to all kinds of pettiness to
make sure that Richard wasn’t happy, and she hadn’t raised a finger to relieve Eliza’s lonely lot. She’d been jealous of her, jealous of the fact that Eliza was Richard’s wife and shared his bed, the bed she had wanted to share, jealous of her even though she knew she had no real reason to be. Well, it had to stop. Once Richard had returned to sea, she intended to invite Eliza to accompany her on a day out to Christchurch, to help her choose some new shoes for her wedding. It would probably turn out to be an expensive outing for Richard’s pocket, too.

22 December 1868

T
he hold’s empty now, cap’n.’ Dan lifted his arm and wiped a grubby sleeve across his sweating face.

‘Good,’ Richard said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his watch. Two o’clock. The lightermen had made short work of discharging the cargo and ferrying it across to the wharf. A mixed cargo it was, too. Assorted cargoes were a damned nuisance in terms of all the extra paperwork they generated. A hold full of wool or cotton was much simpler to deal with. Still, better a hold full of miscellanea than a half-empty hold.

‘Did you tell them to mind how they handled that writing bureau for my wife?’ Richard asked as he watched the last lighter pull away from the ship.

Dan nodded. ‘I did. I told them you’d hold them accountable if it was damaged.’

‘Good,’ Richard said again. ‘Have the crew make the ship secure, Dan, then I’ll pay them their wages.’ Confident that Dan was more than capable of ensuring that the ship was lying safely at anchor, Richard went below to finish tidying up the paperwork on his desk. The return voyage from San Francisco had been a trying one, with ferocious gales and heavy seas. Thank God, he had a decent spell ashore to look forward to. Eleven days. Two days in Lyttelton, five
days at the farm to spend Christmas with his mother and John’s family, then back to Lyttelton for the remaining few days.

An hour later, he had paid the crew, cleared his desk of papers and was packing his bags. The tasselled silk shawl that he’d bought for Eliza for Christmas ought to please her, he thought as he slipped it in his bag. It was the softest silk he’d ever felt. He’d bought a similar one for his mother. Scented soaps for Charlotte, Ann and Sarah. Cigars for John, Edwin and George. He’d bought a box for Fairfield, too, in case he’d been invited to the farm for Christmas. He probably had been invited, seeing he would be part of the family very soon. Richard frowned as he closed the clasp on the big leather bag. ‘I’m not convinced that Charlotte will be happy with him,’ he murmured aloud. He did a lot of talking to himself in his cabin—a legacy of spending so much time there on his own. He shook his head, then with a loud sigh walked around the cabin to make sure that all was in order, drawers and doors securely locked in case of a heavy swell. Satisfied, he picked up his bags, locked the cabin door and went on deck.

The crew had all gone ashore, keen to spend some of the money jangling around in their pockets. The only man aboard now, besides Richard, was Dan.

As they rowed back to shore, with the sun beating down on their backs, Dan chatted about his wife and children back in England, who would be spending Christmas without him this year. Listening with half an ear, Richard’s thoughts drifted to his own wife: how his own Christmas turned out would largely depend on Eliza’s mood. Last time he’d been ashore, in August, they had done nothing but argue, although he was determined that things would go better this time. That was why he’d decided to buy the writing bureau, because he knew that Eliza would be delighted with it. He’d put a Christmas greeting card in one of the drawers, with the message
With my love,
Richard.
He had placed it there especially to please her. The truth was he was weary of arguing with her every time he came ashore and he was hoping that the bureau and card might put her in a good humour.

Half an hour later, Richard was making his way along Norwich Quay, humming Christmas carols, a canvas bag full of presents in one hand and a big leather bag containing his belongings in the other. Whenever he came ashore, one thing he always enjoyed doing was seeing how many changes there had been to the town. The Mitre Hotel had a new door and there was something different about the Union Bank that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Voelas Road looked much the same. The garden gate squealed on its hinges as he pushed it open with his knee, then squealed again as he kicked it shut with his foot. Making a mental note to put a drop of oil on it, he walked around to the rear door, lifted the latch, and went in. In the kitchen, Molly was sitting at the table, polishing the brasses.

‘Oh, it’s you, Captain Steele,’ she said, hastily getting to her feet. She bobbed down in a token attempt at a curtsey, then sat down again. ‘I thought you were Miss Blake, come to see how Mrs Steele is. She called about this time yesterday.’

Richard looked at her, frowning. ‘Is my wife not well?’

Molly shook her head, absently rubbing the polishing cloth across the brass candlestick. ‘She’s been having bad headaches that make her vomit. Been like this for a week or two.’

The bags landed with a thud at Richard’s feet. ‘Has the doctor examined her?’

‘I couldn’t say, Captain Steele. He’s not been to the house while I’ve been here.’

He glanced at the door. ‘Where’s my wife now? In the bedroom?’

Molly shook her head. ‘No. She seems to be feeling more herself today. She’s gone for a walk.’

‘Where?’

‘I couldn’t say, Captain Steele.’

‘Did she say how long she’d be?’

‘No.’

‘When did she leave?’

‘About an hour ago.’

Richard glanced over to the mantelpiece. The mantel clock, one he hadn’t seen before, black marble with intricately carved pillars and ornate brass feet—he shuddered to think how much Eliza had paid for it—was showing just after three. Remembering the writing bureau, he asked, ‘Have the carriers delivered a piece of furniture?’

Molly dipped her head in the direction of the door leading to the hall. ‘It’s in the parlour.’

‘Was Mrs Steele at home when it arrived?’

Still methodically rubbing the brass candlestick, she answered, ‘She was. It arrived about midday, just as Mr Blake was leaving. He called to enquire after Mrs Steele’s health. He’s called quite a few times of late. So has Miss Blake.’

‘Miss Blake? Don’t you mean Mrs Blake?’ Richard asked.

‘No. Miss Blake,’ she said definitely. ‘Mrs Blake is away from home. I heard Miss Blake telling Mrs Steele that Mrs Blake is away.’

‘I see,’ he murmured. He was surprised to hear that Charlotte had been visiting Eliza. He nodded at Molly then picked up his bags and took them through to the bedroom. As he passed the parlour door, he paused to look in. The writing bureau was there, in the middle of the room where the carriers had left it. The thick woollen blanket that he’d wrapped around it to protect it from getting scratched was lying in a heap on the carpet. Perhaps Eliza had walked down to the port to thank him for it, assuming he would be discharging the cargo on to
the jetty. There had been no available mooring space along the jetty today, though, so he’d had to discharge into lighters. As for where Eliza was now…he glanced over to the window, wondering if he should walk back to town to look for her, decided he would probably miss her, and settled for unpacking his bags instead.

Quarter of an hour later he heard the gate squeal, then the sound of footsteps going around to the back of the house. The kitchen door opened and he heard Molly’s voice informing Eliza that he was home. He waited for her in the bedroom where they could be private, expecting her to come to him straight away, but to his surprise it was three or four minutes before she appeared in the doorway.

At first glance, windswept and rosy-cheeked from the fresh air, she looked the picture of health, but her eyes, her strained smile, told a different story. Walking over to her, he took hold of her hands. ‘You’re not well,’ he said.

‘I’ve a headache, that’s all,’ she replied quietly.

Richard drew her into his arms, holding her close to him. ‘Molly said you’ve been having a lot of headaches recently. Have you seen the doctor about them?’

Eliza shook her head. ‘He’d only tell me to lie down with the curtains drawn.’

He kissed the top of her head gently. ‘You don’t usually suffer from headaches. What’s been causing them? Have you been worrying about something?’

She shook her head again.

‘Well, something must be causing them,’ Richard persisted. ‘You’ve never suffered from headaches before, Eliza. Molly said you’ve been vomiting too. D’you feel sick now?’

‘No, not just now.’

Deciding it might be best to question her further later in the day,
he smiled and kissed her. ‘Where have you been? Molly said you’d gone for a walk.’

‘I walked up the hill. I thought the fresh air might ease my head.’

He frowned and kissed her again. ‘You’d have done better to stay indoors. Walking in the hot sun doesn’t do a headache any good.’ Taking hold of her hand, he led her over to the bed. ‘Lie down for an hour. You’ll probably feel better if you do.’

She glanced down at the white embroidered quilt on the bed, her own handiwork, then looked back at him. ‘What will you do?’

‘Look through the correspondence.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘No. Come on, lie down. I’ll draw the curtains,’ he said, and went over to pull them shut.

Leaving her to rest, he went into the parlour. He walked around, casting his eye over the furniture and ornaments, familiarizing himself with things again, as he always did on his first day ashore. Eliza had bought herself a new piano stool. The hearth rug was new, too. He nodded approvingly at the rich deep colours. Eliza mightn’t be good at managing her purse, but he couldn’t fault her taste. He looked back over his shoulder at the writing bureau. Eliza hadn’t even mentioned it, which had surprised him. Still, she did have a headache. Where was the best place to put it? He looked around, considering. Somewhere where it would get good light from the window. Where the card table was would probably be the best place. He briefly considered rearranging things, then decided to wait until he’d consulted Eliza. Picking up the wad of envelopes and papers awaiting his attention on the silver tray on the sideboard, he settled down in an armchair and started to go through them. Quarter of an hour later, the papers were strewn about his lap and he was dead to the world.

It was nearly seven o’clock when Richard woke. Gathering up the papers from his lap, he stacked them on the arm of the chair and stood up, yawned, stretched, then walked into the hall. Assuming the silence and closed bedroom door meant that Eliza was still resting, he went to see what there was for dinner. As he walked into the kitchen, the gleaming brass candlesticks winked at him from the mantelpiece. Molly had long since gone home, but he was pleased to see she’d left a tray of food on the table, covered by a white cloth. He lifted the corner up, hoping she’d prepared something tasty and filling. Beef—good, he liked beef—cold sausages, cold potatoes, cheese, boiled beetroot, some chunks of bread, and a small dish of mustard. He dropped the corner again, wondering if Eliza felt like some food, then turned to look over his shoulder as he heard the bedroom door open and the sound of her footsteps coming down the hall.

Eliza smiled at him as she came into the kitchen, looking slightly better, he thought.

He smiled back at her. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Better, thank you.’

‘Would you like some dinner?’

She glanced at the tray on the table and gave an unenthusiastic nod. ‘Just a little.’

‘Sit down. I’ll serve it out,’ he said, pulling out a chair for her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked over to the table and sat down, while he collected plates and cutlery from the dresser. If she was no better tomorrow, he would insist on her seeing the doctor. He leaned across the table and set a plate in front of her, then arranged the cutlery around it. ‘What would you like to eat?’

‘Just a slice of beef and a potato.’

He frowned, but didn’t press her.

‘I haven’t thanked you yet for the writing bureau,’ she said quietly as he dropped a slice of beef on to her plate. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘D’you like it?’ He frowned, not at all sure that she did. He couldn’t see why she wouldn’t like it—it was just that her smile wasn’t quite the delighted one he’d expected.

‘I do. It’s lovely,’ she said again. ‘Thank you.’

‘Did you find the card?’

She looked at him blankly.

‘In the small drawer between the compartments for letters.’

She shook her head.

‘Oh,’ he said in a flat voice. She obviously hadn’t examined the bureau very thoroughly.

‘I’ll go and get it,’ she said, pushing back her chair.

‘No.’ He flapped the fork at her, gesturing her to stay put. ‘You can read it later.’ He dropped a potato on to her plate then proceeded to fill up his own. She’s got a headache, Richard, he reminded himself once again. But headache or no headache, he really did think Eliza might have shown a bit more interest in the bureau and been a little warmer in her thanks.

Making up his mind not to dwell on it, he sat down opposite her. ‘What have you done while I’ve been away?’ he enquired.

‘What I always do,’ she said. ‘Sew. Visit Ann. Go for walks around the town. Go to church. Go to Christchurch on the train occasionally, when I can find someone to accompany me.’

Well aware that she was making the point that
he
couldn’t accompany her, he lowered his eyes and began to cut up his beef. ‘I see you’ve bought a new mantel clock,’ he remarked, changing the subject. ‘Where did you buy it?’

‘In Christchurch.’ She pushed the prongs of her fork into her
potato, sliced off a small piece and put it in her mouth.

Eliza hadn’t volunteered the name of the shop, he noticed. A sure indication that it had come from an expensive one.

‘It looks heavy,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘It is.’

‘How did you get it home? Did you hire a carrier to take it to the station?’

‘No, I was with George and Ann when I bought it, so George carried it for me.’

‘Have there been any big changes in Christchurch?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, slicing off another small corner of potato.

They sat for a minute or two, eating in silence, then Eliza said, ‘How were your voyages?’

‘All right,’ he said noncommittally. Experience had taught him that it paid to be extremely non-committal about his voyages, not to say anything that even remotely suggested he sometimes found them long and tiring, or that the seas had been rough or dangerous, and thereby provide an opening for Eliza to harangue him about quitting the sea and doing something else for a living.